


Late Night Thoughts

by zevsky



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Late Night Conversations, Late at Night, Light Angst, M/M, Pavelyan - Freeform, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zevsky/pseuds/zevsky
Summary: Both the Inquisitor and Dorian are plagued by an uncomfortable feeling, of which they both can't quite tell the origin. While Dorian manages to sleep, haunted by nightmares of the Fade, the Inquisitor does not get as far and stays awake, letting his vivid imagination guide him through his late night thoughts.





	1. Late Night Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> First of all, thank you for reading my first fanfiction on here. I hope that it is somewhat enjoyable. 
> 
> Second of all, I want to shortly explain the inspiration to this.  
> On the Dragon Age Amino, we were given prompts that are supposed to help us write any piece of literary work within the months March, April, and May. This rather short fanfiction is my entry for these two prompts: 
> 
> "Fearlings appear as giant spiders in DAI but in truth, they are the embodiment of each character greatest fear. What does your character fear fighting the most? How do the fearlings appear to them?"
> 
> "What did one of your characters think of their love interest upon first meeting them? Vice versa?" 
> 
> I'd be happy about any kind of feedback you can give me!  
> Happy reading!

Soft candlelight barely illuminated the pages of his book. His eyes were hurting from the bad lighting already, but he didn't feel like sleeping yet. A strange feeling kept him awake, a feeling he could not quite label properly. It wasn't that typical feeling of uncertainty, nor regret, nor fear, but perhaps a mix of those. Where those weird mixed feelings came from? He could not tell. What he could tell was that the book distracted him from them, and that was all that mattered. Drenching the room in full darkness right now, leaving him with nothing to wrap his mind around, would probably drive him insane. Moreover, the book was way too interesting to put away.

A sudden movement next to him reminded him that he probably should put away that book, however. It would just be a matter of time until Dorian noticed the light next to the bed in a moment of light sleep and lecture the Inquisitor about his sleep schedule again. He was more worried about him waking up than the lecture, though. He needed to rest.

"Oh, and the dread Inquisitor doesn't need to rest at all? As Andraste's Herald, has she blessed you with unlimited energy?", he would say. He exactly knew that the Inquisitor did not like being addressed with those names, and, alas, did he love to use it to his advantage.

More shifting, followed by a groan. Dorian corrected his position in the Inquisitor's arms a bit, without being fully conscious. The Inquisitor was lying on his back to read, while he wrapped an arm around Dorian, who was sleeping on his side, one arm on the Inquisitor's chest. Quickly he put down the book and blew out the candle. Waking Dorian up again was worse than being exposed to his late night thoughts. With heavy eyelids, he scanned the room. The bookshelves with his personal collection of books about Tevinter history, magic - even though he wasn't gifted with its abilities- and even a few controversial science books, that were very hard to find. Sometimes he believed that Dorian only spent this much time in his quarters because of his remarkable book collection, rather than to spend time with him.

In front of those was his desk, which was obviously kept tidy, yet was stuffed with letters, documents, and sketches of wildlife, Skyhold, and landscapes. Probably a few sketches of Dorian, too. When he first met him in the Redcliffe Chantry, he could not help it but to be drawn in by his charm. Quite frankly, back then it wasn't Dorian's good looks or his extravagant clothing choices that fascinated him, but his attitude to things, how he dealt with the rather risky situation at hand. He still remembered Dorian's first words to him like it only happened yesterday:

"Good, you're finally here. Now help me close this, would you?"

As if he wasn't just fighting a horde of demons that poured out of a rift that twisted time around itself; as if that situation wasn't universally terrifying and ultimately dangerous. He wondered how someone could just stand above things like that and not be bothered at all. Or perhaps he was bothered and just did a very good job at hiding it. The Inquisitor wasn't a very expressive person either when it came down to emotions and feelings, but he was certain that, in a situation like this, he would not be able to keep his cool, not like that. Fighting demons alone, inside a Chantry, next to a rift that twisted time. No, thank you very much. He was even more perplexed when he calmly asked him how his anchor worked like that was his biggest concern right now. From that moment on he knew that he could not free himself from the clinging arms that were his witty personality, ever. Never again he wanted to miss his sarcastic comments, funny remarks and unnecessary complaining combined with his raw intellect. He never enjoyed listening to someone talking as much as he did with Dorian. He could probably tell him the most boring facts about how the Orlesians manage their lands and how their feudal system works and he would still look at him lovingly, enjoying the conversation with all his heart and soul.

Only after that he noticed his rather stunning looks, would catch himself staring at him for just a bit too long, trying to memorize every small complexion of his face; the exact colour of his eyes; the way his lips ever so slightly revealed a bit of emotion, a glimpse of his thoughts, when he wasn't speaking. He would lurk into the Skyhold library daily, studying the mage's hand motions as he scanned the bookshelves for something interesting or perhaps important, lightly brushing over the spines of the books with one finger; how he scratched his small soul patch when lost in thought. But no, Dorian obviously was never the reason he walked up that staircase to the library. The Inquisitor had things to do there, problems to solve, people to save; he wouldn't waste time in the library to admire a man who looked slightly better than average, right? The problem was that this almost cocky Tevinter mage was not just slightly better looking than average. Prior to meeting him, the Inquisitor practically gave up on drawing animals and landscapes and studying topics that interested him outside his education; two things he used to greatly enjoy when he was still a young man. The training and Chantry teaching he had to undergo separated him from his hobbies, took away his inspiration even. Through meeting Dorian however, all that inspiration suddenly came back. He felt the sudden urge to fill whole books with Dorian's interesting face and the beautiful architectural masterwork that was Skyhold and the charming, seemingly endless forests of the Emerald Graves. He started reading books again, even went on a literal hunt after the most interesting and rare works Thedas had to offer, no matter the Coin that would cost him. Some of them obviously went to Dorian, even before they confessed their love to each other.

He was certain: meeting him was the best thing that could have happened to him.

The Inquisitor never would have guessed that this man, this wildly talented and highly intellectual Tevinter mage with his stunning looks, would share a bed with him one day. With him, of all people. That someone like Dorian even existed was hard for him to believe, even when he stood right in front of him in the Redcliffe Chantry. If the Inquisitor had not been so overwhelmed by the number of feelings and thoughts and sensations this man inflicted on him the very second he laid his eyes upon him, he probably would have had a better question than "Who are you?".

He was not good enough for him, was he? This man deserved better. His title, Inquisitor, it was not in the way explicitly, but they both felt that it made things more difficult. And the ambitions Dorian had, to improve the situation in The Imperium, to fight corruption and other calamities in the Magisterium. Whether he wanted it or not, he was the heir of his father's seat in the Magisterium and sooner or later it would draw him back to his home country he adored so much. Sooner or later, they would drift apart again. The Inquisitor wished it was different, but more for Dorian's sake than his own. He deserved to know what actual love and commitment felt like; being a port in a storm again was the last thing he was supposed to be. Not to him.

He deeply inhaled dry air and sighted. This is not what he should be thinking about right now. He took Dorian's hand that was resting on his chest and held it, while he ran through his hair with the other. He suddenly felt Dorian's hand tightening in his.

"I'm cold", he barely managed to say with his eyes still closed, half asleep.

"Such a hothouse orchid. Maeveris was right", the Inquisitor chuckled, then proceeded to pull up the blanket up to Dorian's shoulders and rubbed his back a bit in an effort to keep him warm.

Dorian freed his hand from the Inquisitor's to hug him tighter: "You seem...wide awake. Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I was occupied by a book. Then lost in thought."

"Think more silently, then. Would help us both with sleeping."

A short moment of silence. Eventually, the Inquisitor's curiosity was bigger than his desire to finally sleep:

"What did you think about me the first time we met?"

"Oh, those are the thoughts that jolted me awake? About the day we met?"

"You always avoid questions so easily. Answering questions with questions. Deflecting them with a thick layer of wit and sarcasm. We have been together for so long and yet sometimes I still don't know what is going on in that pretty head of yours."

"Would be somewhat dull if it was any different, wouldn't it?

"You just did it again."

"And you are skipping on a good night's rest again, which you desperately need, it seems."

"Just once, Dorian. Please, answer my question, would you?”

Dorian shifted uncomfortably, corrected the position of his head on the Inquisitor’s shoulder.

“Later, perhaps. I’m sure the sun will rise soon and you haven’t even closed your eyes once, I’m guessing”, he eventually suggested, “do us both a favor and sleep.”


	2. The Fade?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has to explore the Fade in his dreams one more time. But instead of leaving him in cold sweat, he actually realizes a thing or two about himself, his father and his relationship with his lover.

The Fade. The very place where no mortal foot was ever meant to tread. Physics works differently here; gravity seems to pull objects into different directions and affects every other rock or item in unnatural ways. There is no up and down here, no sense of direction. The only anchor point there is, is the Black City at its core: once the Golden City, it held the throne of the Maker within its walls. That fact does not make this place any more comfortable, however. Ominous lights in green, yellow and orange flicker in every corner like vicious predator eyes; gooey liquids occasionally pour from rocks that form a surreal wasteland that is home to grand-scale violence among demons in the distance. The landscape always seems to move, as if it was alive and breathing, basically ever-changing with every nightmare that feeds the hungry quiet of the Fade. All the disgusting goo, rocky wasteland and demon fighting was complimented by an intimidating green light. Walking through there was like sailing the world's nightmares on low-tide.

Frankly said, Dorian is not amused to find himself in this place again. Walking the Fade physically probably was the most scarring experience of his life and returning to it, living it all over again in his dreams, was just as bad. He clings to his staff until his knuckles turned white; his life could be very much dependent on his reaction time. The ambient noise is loud, but in the far distance, letting Dorian feel the yearning stillness closely surrounding him.

The confusion and desultoriness accelerate Dorian’s pulse and heartbeat, which he could feel even in his head, even though this was just a dream. A very vivid nightmare. The manifestation of the scars the clinging claws of the Fade left on him. For quite some time Dorian does not dare to move in fear of attracting any demons. Fighting, splashing, the tapping of little spider feet and some low, dire humming make up the ambient noise.

“No need to panic, Dorian. It’s just a nightmare. A bad dream. Soon enough you will wake up in your nice, warm bed again...”, he chants to himself, trying not to hyperventilate.

Eventually, he decides to advance forward, slowly but surely, ready to throw a fireball at anything that moves at any given time. Promptly, the humming becomes louder, small rocks tumble down from above him, as if he woke up a sleeping dragon. He swallows, cursing the damned place in his head.

“A nightmare it is indeed, Dorian. They shape the Fade. I wonder what you shall make of it”, a deep, eerie, yet calming voice, that emerged from the humming, announces.

“Stay off me, nightmare demon. You will not intimidate me.”

Laughter. The kind that sends chills down your spine.

“That is yet to be seen.”

With spite masking his fear, Dorian now walkes more confidently through the wasteland, wading through puddles and shallow lakes of black goo. An obvious path is always apparent in front of him, seemingly forming as he keeps going forward, the Black City always in sight. Only when he reaches a more open areal, he resolves to exploring out of bounds. A decision he was soon to regret.

His expedition leads him to a graveyard, well protected in a small cave. It is similar to the one he saw together with the Inquisition party when they walked the Fade physically. Back then he didn’t dare to take a look at it, but now that he could find comfort in the certitude that this was, in fact, but a dream and not the life threatening reality, he makes a short stroll trough it. He is surprised that most of the tombstones are either blank or weathered beyond readability. Except three. The one of this father, Halward Pavus, the Inquisitor’s, Aurel Trevelyan, and, of course, his own.

Several chills go down his spine, cold sweat accompanying it. The wall of spiteful confidence he put between himself and his fear this place, or dream rather, inflicted on him, slowly came down with every additional minute he spends there. However, this horror was so bad, he is not able to look away.

"Halward Pavus  
His son’s spite"

"Aurel Trevelyan  
Distance"

As he reads his own name, he immediately closes his eyes and turnes around, away from the tombstones, in denial. He needs to take a few deep breaths. It should be over any second. He should leave. Right now.

“Don’t you want to know what it says, Dorian?”

He opens his eye wide open. His father stands in front of him, talking to him in a familiar but twisted voice, his face grossly distorted. The image of his father seems calm, almost friendly, welcoming.

“Father?”, Dorian asks with a trembling voice.

“Read the inscription on the tombstone, Dorian.”

It took a step towards him. Dorian holds his staff in front of him, points it at his father defensively.

“Why? Why should I?”

The image of his father approached him further, forcing him back into the cave he was just about to leave, back to his tombstone.

“You didn’t let him speak, Dorian.”

Another such distorted image appears. This time, it has likeliness with the Inquisitor. It, however, did not make any attempts to walk towards him. It just stares him down.

“You are such a disappointment, Dorian!”

His father, or whatever that was, turns more aggressive, pointing at him with green, glowing, angry eyes.

“You’re no son of mine!”

Dorian is shaking, panicking.

“I’m sorry, father!”, he yells, without any effect.

The image of his father is about to attack him, after Dorian threw a few fireballs at him and casted several fire mines, in vain. He is certain he is about to die. Either that, or to wake up. He inhales deeply, as if he wanted to enjoy air filling his lungs for one last time, closes his eyes in fear and yells but one word, one last, magic word, for it may save him:

“Amatus!”

The attacker suddenly freezes mid attack.

The image of the Inquisitor carefully walks towards him. With the voice of the nightmare demon it gives him a word of encouragement:

“This is your burden, Dorian. You made it part of your being. You can flee, but you are fleeing with yourself. Leave it be.”

It vanishes, as does the image of his father. Shaking, Dorian falls to the ground, his mouth and eyes now wide open. He coughs, tries to catch his breath after the shock. He lies his staff down on the ground beside him and cups his face in his hands.

“Please. No more. I can take no more of this. Make it stop!”, he yells into the void. As he dares to look around again, everything suddenly turns bright. He squints into the light and finally, jolted awake.

The warm and comforting arms of the Inquisitor around him immediately calmed him down. His immediate reaction was to squeeze his hand, however, as he was still ready to fight or flee at any given moment. This heart was still pounding against his rib cage, as if it was about to break a rib and just jump out, but his Amatus calmed him. He wanted to hug him tighter, and so he did. He could never admit it, but he needed the Inquisitor as close to him as possible right now. The Inquisitor playing with his hair gave him goosebumps, but the good kind. Finally it was over; he was safe and protected.

To excuse his hug, he said he’s cold in a fake sleepy voice. Of course he wasn’t. Quite the opposite. He was sweating and wide awake, but he didn’t want to worry him. Obviously the Inquisitor immediately took measures to keep him warm, credulous as he was. But it also bothered Dorian. That means he wasn’t sleeping. Again. Perhaps the Inquisitor was as plagued as he was?

“You seem...wide awake. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I was occupied by a book. Then lost in thought.”

“Think more silently then. Would help us both with sleeping.”

A witty answer to cover his panic from the nightmare.

Dorian was about to drift off to sleep again, when the Inquisitor asked him about the first day they met. He shifted. He wasn’t in the mood right now. After getting almost murdered by some demon thing that looked a lot like his father, there was no way he could be all lovey-dovey now.

“Later, perhaps. I’m sure the sun will rise soon and you haven’t even closed your eyes once, I’m guessing”, he eventually suggested, “do us both a favor and sleep.”

“No. I want to know now. It will leave me sleepless if you don’t tell me, Dorian.”

Hearing his name made him jump. Was he serious? Why can’t the idiot just close his eyes and sleep? At least he was his idiot. At least he saved him. Maybe he owed him that one. This tombstone in the Fade said “distance”. Maybe he should stop putting so much of it between them.

“Fine. Have it your way. But only if you promise to finally sleep afterwards.”

“I promise.”


End file.
